


Constant

by BrokenSilence137



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenSilence137/pseuds/BrokenSilence137
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Series Wincest: A teenage Sam confesses the overwhelming feelings he has for Dean. Both boys have to come to terms with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drowning

The door pushing open started the sound of glass bottles clinking. Sam jolted to see his big brother entering the room. Dean looked at his feet as he entered to see the floor littered with empty beer bottles and cans. Swiping a path through the mess with his foot, he closed the door behind him. Sam could feel heat rising in his cheeks.

"So, did I miss a party?" Dean asked, eyebrow raised in the direction of his little brother who was wavering in the center of the room with a panicked look on his face.

"N-No, Pfft, no. Nope," Sam said quickly, still wavering between the two unmade queen beds that took up most of the room.

"Party of one, then?" Dean prodded, stepping further into the tiny space.

"You don't get it," Sam muttered, the hint of a whimper shivering in his voice.

Dean rolled his eyes at the stereotypically teenage-angst statement that had just drawled from Sam's lips. "Dude, you're drunk out of your head."

"I'm not," Sam said, sticking his chin out defiantly.

"Oh, right. Of course not," Dean muttered, watching the way Sam struggled for balance. Dean shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it on the closest bed and beginning to pick up the bottles that were strewn about.

"You don't have to clean up my mess. I can do it myself," Sam slurred, leaning forward in an attempt to help. He lurched forward. Dean reached an arm out to catch him, but Sam shook his head. He slowly and carefully straightened himself up, realizing he was inevitably going to make a fool of himself. The only question was to what degree.

"Dad finds the place like this and you on the verge of passing out -- he's gonna kill us both. It's not about cleaning up your mess, it's about saving your ass," Dean said, glancing warily at the motel door as though superstitious that the mere mention of their father might make John appear. He began to pile the discarded cans and bottles into a tiny trash bin by the dresser.

"So, where'd you get the booze?" Dean asked.

Sam staggered back, perching precariously on the edge of one of the beds before sliding off of it. Giggling, he landed on the floor in a pile of shaking limbs. His little laughing fit subsided after a moment. "Isn't 'why' a better question?" Sam asked.

"Okay... why?" Dean indulged his brother. "Why does a sixteen-year-old nerd get wasted by himself on a Thursday night?"

Sam scoffed indignantly. "My age has nothing to do with it! You started drinking when you were younger than me."

"Yeah, well I didn't get shit-faced," Dean said, straightening up and crossing his arms in front of his chest. It was a flat-out lie; he'd been drunk out of his mind plenty of times in his youth, but he could handle his liquor. Sam, on the other hand, clearly could not.

"I'm not shit-faced," Sam denied stubbornly.

"Dude, you're spread-eagled on the floor," Dean said, gesturing to his brother before he jammed the last empty can into the now-overflowing trash.

A renewed fit of laughter burst forth from Sam, making his chest heave. "I love you," he muttered, still chuckling.

"Yeah, okay. I love you too, buddy," Dean said, rolling his eyes as he helped Sam up off the floor. He settled his little brother on the bed, making sure Sam was centered on the mattress so he wouldn't slide off of it again.

Sam grabbed at his brother's face, brushing his thumb clumsily over Dean's jawline. The stubble gently scratched at his fingertips. Dean pushed him away. "What's going on with you?" Dean asked, pulling his face away from Sam's clumsy fingers. Sam shook his head and shrugged, scooting back and collapsing onto the bed again. Dean sighed and took a seat on the opposite bed.

"Ugh, I don't feel..." Sam groaned softly to himself, burying his face in the pillow underneath his head.

"Are you gonna heave?" Dean asked.

"Uh..." A wave of nausea and a sour, salty taste spiked in the back of Sam's mouth. "Y-Yeah."

"Okay, come on," Dean said, rushing to action. He hoisted Sam off the bed and dragged him quickly to the bathroom, flipping up the toilet seat.

Sam dropped to his knees, clutching the rim of the bowl and breathing heavily. He felt the bile rising up in his throat, along with words he was desperate to speak, but couldn't. He moaned and leaned in closer to the toilet, throwing up in great, shuddering heaves. He heard Dean sigh beside him, an impatient, disappointed sound that made Sam's heart sink, though he knew he deserved judgment. He expected Dean to leave him to sober up. Instead, he felt a firm hand on his back, gently rubbing up and down.

"Just get it out of your system," Dean said softly, tucking strands of hair behind Sam's ears. "Your hair gets any longer, I'm gonna need to hold it back for you the next time you pull some bullshit like this."

Sam finished emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flushed. He braced himself against the toilet, trying to lift himself up off of his knees. Dean helped him up. Sam gripped the edge of the sink, running the faucet and washing his hands and face.

"Oh God," Sam muttered. "Fuck. I hate myself," he murmured.

"Yeah, common side effect of the booze," Dean said.

"No. It's not," Sam said, turning the faucet off and looking at their reflections in the mirror above the sink.

"Okay, what is it then?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "I can't tell you."

"Sure you can, Sammy. Just spit it out," Dean prodded impatiently.

The internal struggle that raged within Sam was simple. Continue to lie and remain safe and loved, or tell the truth and risk losing the only person who really mattered to him. Risk seeing affection morph into disgust and loathing. The prospect terrified him, sent another wave of nausea through his body, but there was nothing left to throw up. And the alcohol had loosened his tongue just enough to embrace the risk.

"You're my big brother and I love you a lot," Sam began, staggering out of the bathroom and sprawling himself back onto his bed. Dean took a seat next to him, half-perched on the edge.

"Yeah, I know, dude. You're my little brother and I love you too," Dean said, patting Sam's knee in a paternal manner. Sam wondered where Dean had learned that behavior when he couldn't ever recall John showing affection to either of them.

"No... You don't feel the same way I do. I feel wrong about it... how I feel about you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, shifting on the bed and looking at Sam.

"It's... It's like..." Words were difficult, and, in the haze of courage that the alcohol afforded him, actions seemed like a better choice. Simultaneously terrifying and with irreparable consequences, but also simpler. Sam chewed on his bottom lip for a second, studying the concern etched in Dean's face. Sam took a deep breath, sat up, and leaned into Dean. His lips slammed against his older brother's in a harsh, clumsy manner.

"Whoa! Wait," Dean gasped out, clawing to put some space between them. He pushed Sam back and stood from the bed. "What the fuck?" The shock of what Sam had just done left Dean trembling. It had taken a great deal of self control to move away when his instinct had been to lash out and punch. His hands were already curled into fists at his side, but he kept them there, breathing deeply and waiting for some explanation.

"I told you. It's wrong... I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have done that," Sam whispered, cradling his head in his hands and curling up on his side. He dragged the blanket over his head, hiding himself from Dean, or rather, hiding Dean's expression from his view -- an expression twisted with shock and confusion and disgust.

He heard Dean's voice muffled through the blanket, stuttering halted questions that went unfinished and unanswered. Stinging tears began to well up in Sam's eyes. He tried to blink them away with some success.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered in a little chant that was barely audible through the blanket.

"Look, it's okay... You're not thinking straight," Dean said.

Sam laughed. "Yeah, not so straight right now. You're right," he agreed.

"No, I just mean -- you're drunk. You're not yourself," Dean clarified.

Sam fisted his hands through his hair and clenched his jaw, taking a few seconds before sitting up and facing Dean. He kneaded the edge of the blanket nervously between his fingers. "It's not the beer, Dean. I don't know why, but I've been feeling... for months now. Maybe longer. I don't really know anymore."

"Feeling what?" Dean asked, though he knew he wasn't prepared for the answer.

"I-- You're my big brother and I look up to you, you know? But it's more than that. I love y--"

"You're just... You got confused somehow, okay, Sam?" Dean said, cutting Sam off. "You need some friends or a nice girl in your life and you'll be fine."

"No, I don't need anyone else," Sam said, clutching the blanket so hard now that his knuckles had turned white. "You're the only person who matters! I've had friends. They last about five minutes before Dad drags us to the next place. You're my... my only constant. Everyone else leaves, or gets left behind. It's just you."

Dean didn't know how to respond. Everything Sam said was true. He had spoken aloud the same things Dean had always felt. His little brother was the only person Dean had ever felt unconditional love for and from, the person he had spent most of his time with. No one else even came close to mattering to Dean the way Sam mattered. But that didn't mean he could fully comprehend the exact way Sam's love was manifesting for him now. He wanted to run away, but he couldn't abandon his brother, not with the way Sam's face was contorted with utter fear. Dean knew that look, understood it. It was a face that was begging not to be abandoned.

Sam could feel his eyes burning as they began to well with tears again. The cushion of the alcohol had begun to fade, no longer protecting him. He was left feeling filthy. He couldn't meet Dean's gaze, too afraid that something in his brother's eyes would confirm what he already felt about himself -- that he was repulsive, sick, a freak. He shut his eyes tightly and pressed his palms against his closed lids.

Shock jolted through Sam at the feel of Dean's hand coming to rest on his shoulder. It was such a calm, gentle, and unexpected gesture. Sam wanted to reach back and grab Dean's hand, but he was afraid that if he did, Dean would pull away. Sam didn't know why Dean was showing him mercy, not after what he had confessed. He chose not to question it though, not when he needed the reassurance so badly.

Dean sighed and looked down at the crumpled heap that was his little brother. He had always known how to be with Sam -- breakfast and bandaids and jokes and ruffling his hair -- until this moment. Now he was lost. But oddly, though Sam had set him out into raging waters, he was still Dean's anchor. Dean tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder slightly. They remained together in silence, connected by that touch.

 

* * *

_Reviews are much appreciated. (Please and thank you.)_  
 _~a_


	2. Sunset

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam muttered, the words thick in his mouth. He couldn't say them enough, couldn't make them true enough to fix things. Even with the alcohol soaking his blood, he knew that he had permanently changed things between himself and his brother. He wasn't able to assess the full extent of the damage tonight, but he could feel a rift - a crack in the pavement between them that could remain small, just large enough to let a few weeds grow through. Or maybe it would widen, cave in and swallow them both.

"It's..." Dean sighed. He wanted to reassure his brother and tell him that it was alright, but it wasn't. He sighed and rubbed Sam's back. "Don't worry about it for tonight, Sammy. Just get some rest."

Sam licked his chapped lips and sighed. "So tired," he murmured. His mouth was dry and his brain felt swollen, too large for the skull it was encased in.

"I know, man. I'm gonna get you some water and then you're gonna go to bed, alright?" Dean told Sam.

Sam nodded weakly, burying his forehead in his hands as Dean walked away. Sam heard the rustle of a paper cup being removed from plastic packaging and then the bathroom sink faucet running. Dean returned to Sam's side, grabbing one of his hands and placing it around the cup. Sam's grip was slack, so Dean wrapped his fingers around Sam's and guided the cup to his lips.

"Just drink a little," Dean said as he slowly tipped the cup back. Sam gulped down all the water. Dean put the cup on the bedside table. "Get some rest." His throat was tight and sore from all the emotion he was keeping contained. He hoped his voice didn't sound constricted and unnatural to Sam. Not that it mattered much if Dean's voice was soothing - judging by the slight rocking back and forth of Sam's body, he would be passed out soon enough. "Lie down, buddy," Dean said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder and gently guiding him to lie back on the bed.

"I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry," Sam whispered as he sank back, allowing himself to be led by Dean's hand. His body ached with exhaustion and welcomed the rickety mattress underneath him. A fog had settled into his brain. He needed rest. He needed to forget this whole night.

But he didn't. By morning, some details had slipped away, but he knew what he had done. Each pounding ache that pumped through his skull served as evidence of the night before.

A week of stolen glances, rigid shoulders, and stunted, overly-polite interactions passed. Neither brother acknowledged the confession Sam had made that night. They both tried to act as though nothing had happened, but the more they attempted to ignore it, the greater the distance between them became.

That night was still hazy for Sam. He remembered spilling forth words that had been resting behind his teeth, captives behind bars. He remembered slamming his lips to Dean's, an almost violent gesture that could hardly be considered a kiss. He remembered Dean pushing away. The distance enforced had sent waves of shame through him. But then Dean had come back to him. The guilt still clung to Sam like perspiration, but, in that moment, his fear had lessened. He had shown Dean a part of himself that he had suspected would drive them apart. Still, Dean had taken that piece of Sam in and held onto all of him. Dean hadn't discarded his little brother after his confession. Though, in the days following that interaction, fear and doubt lapped up against Sam as the silence between him and Dean grew.

The shock, anger, and disgust that had boiled up inside of Dean that night had melted away, instead leaving hollow numbness and an insidious trickle of questions. Why did Sam feel the way he did? What compelled him to tell Dean about it? How was Dean supposed to handle that information?

The way Sam had grabbed onto Dean felt so natural. The alcohol and the desperation hadn't been right, but there was something under that. Something pure. How could it be pure when the idea of how Sam loved him was so sick and wrong by normal standards? But then, when had they lived their lives by normal standards? It was a dangerous question to ask, one that cracked open a door to possibilities Dean wasn't ready to handle.

"You boys've been awful quiet lately," John said, fingers drumming the steering wheel of the Impala as he glanced from Dean beside him, to the rear view mirror where Sam was visible in the backseat. Sam sank down a few inches to avoid his father's gaze.

"Nothing to say, sir," Dean said with a small shrug.

John waited for Sam to say something, but the backseat remained silent. John clenched his jaw and gave a curt nod. "Alright, then." He wasn't stupid. He knew something had come between his sons, though he didn't know what. He turned the radio on and trained his focus on the road. He loved his sons but he was no longer a father to them, not really. He wasn't there to kiss their scraped knees. His job was to keep them alive. He had done that, and better - he had taught them how to keep themselves alive. That was essential, given the way they lived. And, if he was honest, since Mary's death, that was all the fathering John could handle.

The rest of the car ride passed by quietly except for the radio's pattern of music and commercials. Within a few hours, they had arrived at their next destination: a two-church-one-liquor-store kind of town with a few mysterious deaths that John wanted to investigate. The low-hanging sun cast a burning yellow light over everything, sharing a bit of brilliance before relinquishing its place in the sky to the moon.

The Impala carried the Winchesters through to the edge of the town line where a decrepit motel sat with an intermittently blinking OPEN sign hanging in the streaked office window. The off-white siding that covered the two-story building was chipped and faded.

"You two settle in. I'm gonna meet with the sheriff and any witnesses I can get a hold of," John said, idling the car beside the office. A few muttered goodbyes, then the boys grabbed their bags and exited the car. The old Chevy growled out of the parking lot and back into town. Dean checked in at the office, then the two of them walked quietly up a flight of stairs to room 207.

Dean unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. Fluorescents set in the room's ceiling flickered to life, blinking and buzzing before settling and casting a weak bluish-white glow over the beds, the tacky shag rug, and the old, chipped wooden dresser. The cold light of the fluorescents mixed with the warmth of the sun that shot streams of gold into the room through brown, moth-eaten curtains.

"I'm sorry," Sam muttered as he set his bag down on one of the beds.

"What?" Dean asked, suddenly on guard. It was the first time since that night last week that they'd been guaranteed some time alone from their father. "For what?" Dean asked hesitantly, playing dumb. His stomach clenched uneasily as he waited for Sam to speak again.

"For last week," Sam said, rummaging through his bag. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, it was more of an excuse not to look at Dean.

"We don't have to talk about it, Sammy. We can just let it go," Dean said, setting his own bag down on the other bed.

"I know you don't wanna talk about it," Sam acknowledged. "I don't really wanna get into it either but -"

"Then don't, Sam," Dean cut across. "If neither one of us wants to deal with it, why don't we just leave it alone? Just forget about it." It was advice Dean wished he could take for himself. He couldn't forget about it, but he didn't have to rehash it now, not out loud when he could hear something else he wasn't prepared for, or stumble and say something he couldn't explain or take back.

"It's just... I was really drunk and I regret how I handled things," Sam said, carefully choosing his words. He hated the awkwardness between them, but he didn't want to erase its cause. He had meant what he'd said. Taking it back now would be a lie. It wouldn't fix anything.

"You're allowed to fuck up," Dean said. "You're a kid. You were drunk. Those are two easy ingredients for regret. You know, just... don't worry about it." His tone was deliberate and laced with a hard edge that meant he was done talking.

"I'm just sorry that I made things so uncomfortable," Sam pressed.

"Well, that's great, but this isn't helping. We're not gonna sit down, split a pint of ice cream, and hug it out!" Dean said, his voice rising with each word until he was almost yelling. He took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists before attempting to speak again. "Look, man, you basically said that I was the love of your life. You kissed me. You - You're my brother, for Christ's sake." This time, Dean's voice shrank to a whisper, a deflated little sound that was unfamiliar to Sam, who was used to a certain resolve in his big brother.

"I know!" Sam said, finally stopping his idle search through his bag. He straightened up and looked at Dean. "I know it's wrong and fucked up, and I shouldn't have told you. But whether or not I said anything, I'd still feel it."

"Yeah...  _You_  would feel it," Dean said with a nod. "I wouldn't have to know. I didn't wanna know this, Sammy! I don't know what to do with it!" he said, finally acknowledging out loud how helpless he felt.

"You don't have to do anything!" Sam shot back. He knew that Dean Winchester was not accustomed to handling situations that didn't end in salting and burning. He knew he had pushed his big brother so far outside the realm of comfort that Dean was struggling just to function around him. But Sam was struggling too. "Look, it's not your problem. It's mine. If I could stop feeling like this, I would. I'm sorry I dragged you into it by telling you!" Sam said. He paused for a second, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "Just don't hate me."

Dean scoffed and shook his head. "I don't hate you, Sam! I love you!" He dug his fingers through his short hair and sighed. "You said this thing about how I was the only constant in your life. You're that for me too. You're my brother and I love you, but I don't wanna twist that into something else. Our lives are crazy as it is, I don't wanna add to it."

Sam nodded slowly. "Maybe it's 'cause our lives are like this. We're fucked up, Dean. We never got to be kids. Maybe if we had had a normal childhood, I wouldn't've felt like this," he said with a shrug. It felt like a copout, but it was something that Sam had considered lately - a thought he turned over and over inside of him as he struggled to fall asleep in unfamiliar beds. Of course, he had no way of knowing whether or not it was true that they could have had a normal relationship under different circumstances. But there was no sense wondering when there was no alternative.

"So, what?" Dean asked. "If we had a white picket fence and a family membership at the Y and a golden retriever named Bones, you wouldn't be a fuckin' -?" Dean immediately regretted what he had started to say. He had caught himself, but just barely.

Sam's jaw set, clenched tight. "What? Say it," he whispered. The golden shafts of light that bled through the curtains had started to fade, leaving the room colder and darker.

"I didn't... I don't know. I didn't mean..." Dean trailed off.

"You meant it," Sam said quietly. "You were gonna say 'freak,' right? I'm just some sick, twisted freak who's -"

"Shut up!" Dean groaned, walking up and wrapping Sam in a lung-crushing hug.

Sam wanted to curl up into his brother's arms, melt into him. But he backed away. "Why?" he whispered. He couldn't understand what would compel Dean to hug him, to get close enough to touch Sam.

In all honesty, Dean didn't know why he had hugged Sam. Under the circumstances, getting so close to his brother felt like the last thing he should do. But it was engrained in him. Dean had grown up brushing the bangs out of Sam's face, and sitting side by side with him in the back of the Impala, and tucking him into bed, only to awake at night and find Sam curled up with him after a bad dream. "You're my brother," Dean answered.

"Exactly," Sam said, shaking his head. "I'm your brother. You said it yourself - I shouldn't feel this way about you."

"I didn't say that!" Dean said defensively. He paced the length of the room until he was pressed against the far wall, as far away from his brother as he could get. His words began to spill out in a rush, "I didn't say - I said I didn't know how to deal with it. I said I felt the same way. I said I love you. I said I don't wanna make our lives harder. I-"

"You... Wait," Sam said, holding his hands up for Dean to slow down. He didn't want to repeat back what he thought he heard for fear that he had imagined it. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Did you say -?" he started through his fingers, before dropping his hand down by his side, "- you felt the same?"

Dean's breath caught on his chest, trapped inside his ribcage, unable to escape. He watched as if from underwater as Sam took a small step towards him. A few seconds of hesitation, then another timid step. "Is-Is that what you said?" Sam pressed, his voice soft.

All cohesive thoughts had disappeared from Dean's brain, as if they had dribbled out of his ears. Had he said that? He couldn't remember. If he had - what had he meant by it? He could see a spark of hope flickering in Sam's eyes. A small flame that guttered as it battled against doubt, easily extinguished if Dean shut him down now. But he couldn't. He couldn't just put out that spark and leave nothing but a wisp of gray smoke in its place. It wasn't that he wanted to spare Sam's feelings. It was that he was no longer sure of his own.

One of the three lights set into the ceiling flickered and went out. Both Sam and Dean paused, looking up at the extinguished light. The tension between them quickly shifted into something different, an alertness that made them both freeze. The two remaining fluorescents were weak without the aid of the sunlight that had finally given in to the night. Sam and Dean looked up at the fixtures, waiting for another flicker, but there were no more.

"I think it's fine. I mean, not everything is supernatural," Sam said after a minute, though he remained standing still and attentive for any other potential sign of a threat.

Dean took a deep breath and stepped away from the wall he had his back pressed against. "Better safe than sorry," he said as he began to rummage in his bag. He withdrew a tiny EMF meter, made from recommissioned pieces of radios and cell phones. It was dinged and dented, but it still worked. He flicked the on switch. A soft crackling hum came from the device, but there was no telltale whine or flashing lights to warn of any spectral presence. Dean did a sweep of the room, slow and careful, but couldn't detect anything. He flicked the EMF meter off and stuffed it back into the folds of his bag.

"Just a faulty light," Sam said.

"Yeah, well, I wanted to be sure," Dean muttered, zipping up his bag. The momentary burst of adrenaline had drained out of them both, replaced once again by unease. "I need to go," Dean said, heading for the door.

Sam caught him by the wrist. "Dean, wait a second!"

"No! Christ, Sam," Dean growled, yanking his arm out of Sam's grasp. "I just need some goddamn time," he said before leaving the room and slamming the door behind him.

Sam stood there in awe, trying to process what had just happened. A week ago, Dean had stayed. But then, that was when it was Sam who had been the one opening up. The moment Dean had started to share any vulnerability in return, he had run off. Sam sighed, crouching down to the floor, then sitting back against the edge of his bed. When he had decided to apologize earlier, he had been hoping for some sense of resolution and closure. But he had opened them up for the exact opposite. He stood back up, going to the door and peering outside. A thin line of orange on the horizon melted into black. Sam could just barely see Dean walking off into the darkness before he disappeared entirely.

* * *

_Ugh, such angst. Thank you so much for your reviews. More chapters to come._

_~a_


	3. Truth

Sam hesitated in the doorway, wavering before following after Dean. The older Winchester brother had a solid head start. Sam couldn't even see him, but followed in the direction he knew Dean was headed in. He bowed his head against the wind and continued into the darkness. 

 

 _What the fuck is going on with you?_ Dean thought, hands jammed in his pockets to stay warm in the chilly evening air. He walked, block after block, past a convenience store and a few small shops, and into an abandoned neighborhood with decrepit buildings, marked by peeling paint and displaced bricks and broken windows. 

 

Sam knew he should turn back and give Dean time alone. He also knew no amount of time was going to be enough for his big brother. Dean would continue to run from Sam. Not that Sam blamed him -- if the roles were reversed, Sam thought he would want to run away too. He shook his head and continued on, keeping up a steady pace until he spotted Dean up ahead. Sam kept half a block behind. He wanted to face Dean, but he wasn't sure if either of them was ready for another confrontation. He maintained the same distance between them for a while longer before finally starting to close in.

 

Dean's feet followed along the sidewalk while his mind raced somewhere else entirely. He loved Sam. It was pure and simple fact, something he had never had to think about before because it simply was. But for the first time in his life, he was calling into question the nature of that love. He shook his head, wishing he could clear his mind of all the thoughts swirling in it like a hurricane. He noticed the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned a corner and ducked behind the edge of a dilapidated brick building. The footsteps loomed closer. Dean lunged out from the shadows, shooting an elbow back toward his follower's chest. His target blocked his blow, grabbing Dean's arm and twisting it behind his back before releasing him. Dean spun around. "Sam?!"

 

"Easy there," Sam said, holding his hands up in supplication, like a man being apprehended by police.

 

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean asked, rage building up in his gut. He shook out the arm that had just been twisted in a hold behind his back and shoved his hands in his pockets. He stared expectantly at his brother.

 

"Look, I'm sorry," Sam started, lowering his hands.

 

"Yeah, you've said that already," Dean snapped, rolling his eyes and clenching and unclenching his fists from inside his pockets.

 

"I know," Sam said, fighting back the almost comical urge to apologize yet again. "I get that you need time to sort th--"

 

"Do you really, Sam? 'Cause if you get it, then what are you doing here?"

 

"I need you! I need you to be my big brother!" Sam said. He knew he sounded like he was begging and while part of him was ashamed by it, another part felt resolved. He wasn't saying these words simply out of desperation now. They were always true. He needed Dean and he knew, or maybe hoped, that Dean needed him too.

 

"I don't know if I can do that right now," Dean said quietly.

 

"Why not?" Sam pressed, biting on his bottom lip to keep it from quivering nervously.

 

"Because, b--" Dean stumbled on his words. "Because we're not brothers anymore."

 

"What?" Sam said. It felt like he had been punched in the gut, all air knocked out of him. He forced himself to take in a slow, shaky breath. The air felt tight in his chest, like a balloon being compressed, on the verge of popping.

 

"How can we call each other family if there's all this fucked up bullshit between us?" Dean asked, pointing from himself to his brother.

 

Sam didn't know what to say. He had kept his feelings hidden for so long for this exact reason. He had never wanted to alienate Dean from him, to damage their brotherhood beyond repair.

 

Dean groaned. "A week ago, I was freaked out. I had no idea you felt that way and then all of a sudden you dump it on me. I wanted to be fine. I wanted to be okay with it. Or, even just be okay with being weirded out. But that's not all it is. You've got me questioning things."

 

"What things?" Sam asked softly.

 

Dean hesitated. "How I feel about you," he said, his voice guilty and quiet.

 

"Well... How do you feel?" Sam asked, voice hitching in his throat.

 

"I don't fucking know!" Dean yelled. 

 

Sam's eyes narrowed. "You do know... You just don't like it."

 

Neither brother said anything for a moment, their breath rising in the cool air.

 

"So what is it? What are you feeling?" Sam asked, his throat tight and panic on his lips. He was afraid to hear Dean say that he hated Sam for this. But if it was possible, Sam thought he might be more afraid by the little sliver of hope that had crept into his heart and made him wonder if Dean could possibly feel the same way. He was disgusted with himself for even thinking it was a possibility. It was preposterous. Yet, even the smallest chance was enough to shift that little bit of hope like dislodged shrapnel in his chest. Whatever Dean's answer, Sam was going to bleed. "Please, Dean," Sam whispered, taking a step towards Dean. "I told you the truth. Now --"

 

"Hey, I don't owe you anything, Sam!" Dean spat. "I never asked you for the truth. I don't have to tell you shit." 

 

Sam took another step towards him, a look of hurt etched all over his face. Dean pushed him away. He had only meant to keep Sam from getting too close, but he had shot his arms out with such force that Sam was sent reeling back, nearly tripping. Sam braced his arms out to try to catch his balance. Dean grabbed one of them to keep Sam from falling back. "Shit, I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean muttered, immediately regretting his words and actions.

 

Sam yanked his arm away from Dean. The shock of Dean lashing out at him had made his eyes begin to water. Dean had never put a hand on him to hurt him before. They had argued with one another before, of course. Siblings growing up in cramped quarters -- it was inevitable. But it had never turned violent. Sam knew that it could've been worse, that it was only a shove. Still, it left him feeling sick. He willed himself not to cry. He nodded and clenched his jaw. "Yeah, alright," he said, sniffling slightly and turning away from his big brother.

 

"Sam --" Dean started.

 

"No, you're right. You don't owe me anything," Sam agreed. He breathed deeply and began walking back to the hotel, mentally kicking himself for going after Dean when he'd known better. 

 

Dean groaned in frustration, kicking at a chunk of cement that had broken away from the rest of the sidewalk. His foot sent it flying, skidding against the pavement and coming to a halt a few yards away. He watched Sam stalk away and realized it was his turn to chase after his little brother.

 

"Wait -- Sam, wait!" Dean yelled, jogging to catch up to him. "I'm sorry," he said, striding alongside Sam. "Sam, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you. I'm sorry."

 

"You're right -- it does get old to hear that over and over," Sam said with his gaze focused straight ahead, unwilling to look at Dean.

 

"What do you want me to say then?" Dean asked, the frustration mounting in his chest.

 

"Nothing that you don't wanna say," Sam muttered.

 

"It took a shit-ton of booze to give you the guts to tell me what was going on with you. So, you know, if you wanna cut me some slack, that would be just fine," Dean said through gritted teeth.

 

"So, what? You wanna get liquored up before you talk to me?" Sam asked, glancing at Dean from the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the direction they were walking.

 

"No! I mean... well, maybe," Dean gave a rough little chuckle. The tight line of Sam's mouth showed how unamused he was. "No. I just -- it's hard," Dean said. He wrinkled his nose, knowing full well what a pathetic statement that was.

 

"It doesn't have to be. You can tell me to drop it. To forget about it," Sam said with a shrug.

 

"When has that ever worked?" Dean scoffed.

 

"Fair point," Sam conceded, the hint of a smile making the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. He licked his lips and banished the would-be grin.

 

"You wanna know the truth?" Dean asked, clearing his throat and picking at a loose thread inside his jeans pocket. Sam remained silent, afraid to make another misstep. Dean cleared his throat again, steeling himself for what he was about to say, or perhaps trying to find a way to say it. "I, uh, I care about you a lot. You're the most important person in my life. But, yeah, when you told me how you felt, it freaked me out." Sam wanted to point out that Dean had already covered that, but he kept quiet and listened. 

 

"But not 'cause it's wrong or whatever," Dean continued. "I mean, that's part of it, I guess. But it's not just that. I have... I have feelings for you too. Feelings that go beyond... what they should." Dean took a deep breath and released it slowly, creating a little stream of mist in the air.

 

Sam was dumbstruck. The feeble flicker of hope spread and transformed into a relief that warmed his insides. Still, he needed confirmation. "So, what you're saying is --"

 

"You might be a freak, but I am too. Yeah," Dean said.

 

Sam stopped walking and wrapped shaky arms around Dean. The older brother hesitated for a second before returning the embrace. They remained wound around each other like that for a minute before Dean pulled out of the hug. He swung an arm around Sam's shoulder. "Let's get back," he said. Sam nodded, taking a few seconds to rest his head against the arm Dean had draped over his shoulder. 

 

They returned to the motel room, standing in the doorway for a minute. The space was small and cramped and had a lingering feeling of bitterness, and imprint or echo that seemed to have soaked into the walls. They had come to a resolution of sorts, but being back in the confines of the motel muted it somehow.

 

"What now?" Sam asked as he took a seat on the edge of one of the beds.

 

"Good question," Dean said with a shrug before joining Sam on the bed. He leaned back and snatched the TV remote off the nightstand. He twirled the hunk of plastic over in his hands for a minute before flicking the TV on and beginning to channel surf. The two of them watched image after image appear and disappear from the screen. Cooking show, commercial, soap opera, talk show. Dean muted the TV and angled himself to face Sam on the bed. Sam instinctively assumed a position that mirrored Dean's.

 

Dean cleared his throat and swiped a hand over his face. Sam bit back a smile at the way his usually cool and composed brother was fidgeting now. Dean chewed on his bottom lip for a second before leaning into Sam and laying a gentle kiss at the edge of his mouth. Then he quickly backed away, as though shocked by an electrical impulse. He took a deep breath and leaned in again, this time pressing his lips squarely to Sam's.

 

The younger boy's eyes fluttered shut as he wrapped an arm around his brother and pulled him in closer. Sam parted his lips, inviting Dean in. Dean gingerly ventured his tongue out to taste Sam, warm and wet. He breathed into the kiss, wrapping an arm around Sam's waist and pulling them in even closer to each other so their chests were pressed together.

 

Sam could feel his heartbeat beginning to speed up and realized that Dean's was too. They were nearly in sync with each other. The connection was quickly lost though when Dean pulled away again.

 

"We shouldn't be doing this. It's not --" he began weakly.

 

"I don't care," Sam cut him off. 

 

Dean sighed. "I wish I didn't care. But I do, so just let me... give this, whatever it is, some time. Okay, Sam?"

 

Sam nodded slowly. It was strange to see Dean -- who rushed into things headfirst -- take a slow and cautious approach. But Sam knew he had to respect his wishes. Hell, Dean was probably right to want to take things slow. There was no coming back from this. Rushing into it would only make things messier than they already were. "Okay," Sam agreed.

 

* * *

 

_Sorry it's taken me a while to update. College and whatnot. Thanks for reading!_

_~a_

 


	4. Joy Ride

Insomnia wasn't a stranger to the Winchesters. Indeed, it was one of the few things they could actually rely on in their inconsistent lives. For Sam, wakefulness was nearly a plague. He'd lie in whatever motel room they were camped out in that week. Body tensed and still, an ache to move, to run and scream hummed just under his skin. But he ignored it. Now, that hum had been quieted, like someone hitting the off switch on a stereo. Disbelief and excitement replaced it. A cautious, reserved piece of himself was telling him not to be happy, that it wasn't safe. Any happiness was fleeting. Its end was inevitable and painful. But it was painful to be stuck in a state of numbness or borderline misery all the time too, so why not enjoy a little happiness while it lasted?

Sam breathed in, holding his breath inside of him for a long count before releasing the stream of air. Just a few hours ago, he had had his first real kiss. Not some sloppy, shameful, drunken thing, but an actual kiss. He wanted more, ached for it, but he also felt a sense of contentment, of satisfaction. He smiled and returned his focus to his breathing. It took about an hour, but Sam managed to drift off to sleep.

Dean listened in the darkness to the pattern of his brother's breathing from the other bed. It steadied him. He could always tell when Sam finally drifted off to sleep, his quiet, measured breath giving way to a more natural ebb and flow. Tonight, Sam succumbed to sleep much sooner than he had as of late. Dean followed after him.

Sunlight cut swaths across the room, thin beams that sectioned the room into different geometric shapes. One beam fell across Dean's face, slowly inching up until it landed across his eyes. He opened them, squinting against the light. He glanced around the room. Everything was as it had been last night: two pairs of boots haphazardly lying near the entrance, two duffel bags on either side of the dresser, a jacket flung over the back of a chair, and no sign of John's presence.

Dean rose and shuffled into the bathroom, stripping and stepping into the shower. He turned the knob. A thumping knock stuttered from behind the wall as the water pipe sprang to life, sending weak, but freezing, jets of water out. He hissed stepped back, quickly adjusting the knob. The water warmed and he took a step closer again, letting it wash over him. He replayed last night in his head, fast-forwarding past the arguing until he got to the kiss. His body had been so charged with excitement and passion and terror, all combined. It had surged through him as his lips had met Sam's, as his arms had pulled Sam in... The thought made Dean hard. Without making a conscious decision to do so, he had begun stroking himself as the water fell over him. He pulled his hand away and bit his lip before adjusting the knob so that the water that poured down became icy cold again.

"So, I think we drove by a diner a couple blocks from here yesterday. You wanna walk over and grab some breakfast?" Dean asked as he stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Sure. Give me ten minutes," Sam said, his gaze being pulled to Dean's bare chest before he averted his eyes. He rose from the bed and slipped past Dean into the bathroom.

A waitress named Sandy with a high, dark ponytail that sat squarely atop her head greeted the two of them as they entered the noisy diner. The place had a bustling energy - good-natured shouts and sizzling from the kitchen in the back, silverware clinking and chattering from the patrons, waitresses cracking jokes as they passed each other. Sandy led them to a booth in the back near the kitchens. Sam and Dean slid into opposite sides as Sandy handed them menus. "Any drinks to start?" Dean ordered a coffee, Sam asked for a water. "Alrighty. I'll be back in a few to take your order," she said with a smile before bouncing off, her ponytail swaying from side to side as she went.

"What?" Dean asked Sam a little while later, after Sandy had set their plates in front of them.

"Nothing," Sam said with a shrug and a playful spark in his eye.

"You've been givin' me a look - what is it?" Dean pressed.

"Really?" Sam asked, eyebrow raised and gesturing to Dean's plate.

"What? Don't judge me," Dean said indignantly.

"I'm just saying... french fries for breakfast?" Sam asked with an impressively judgmental tone as he picked up his fork and speared a bit of egg.

"Think of 'em as home fries if that makes you feel better," Dean said before stuffing a fry into his mouth.

"Hey, it's not about how I feel - it's about how your body's gonna feel after all that grease."

"Hey, my body feels great, alright?" Dean said defensively.

"I'm sure," Sam said, clapping a hand over his mouth and biting back a laugh as he realized the implication of his words.

"Whatever, Sam," Dean said, his cheeks warming and a smile growing on his lips. Sam reached across the grease-streaked table and stole a fry. "Oh, I see how it is!" Dean said.

"Yeah? How is it?" Sam asked.

Dean narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest and gave a knowing little nod. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. "You mock, but you want what I got."

"You just keep setting these up, don't you?" Sam asked.

"Maybe," Dean said with a half shrug. He bent a long french fry in half and stuff it into his mouth with a smirk.

The rest of their meal passed comfortably. They volleyed jokes back and forth to each other between mouthfuls. It was the first time in awhile that being in each other's company felt uncomplicated and easy and fun.

They headed back to the motel room. Dean unlocked the door and held it open for Sam. The two glanced around the room, their good mood suddenly dampened. "Dad's still not back," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah..." Dean said. He walked to the nightstand between the two beds and picked the phone up. "Hi, yeah, I was wondering if there were any messages left for me? I'm in Room 207," he told reception. "Yeah. Hang on," he said, grabbing a notepad and pen out of the nightstand drawer and uncapping it. "Okay, go ahead." He scribbled a number down on the little pad. "Thanks. Bye," Dean said hanging up and immediately calling the number he had just written down.

"What is it?" Sam asked, fear spiking inside of him.

"Don't know yet," Dean said as he waited for the phone to pick up. "Dad?" Relief washed over him as his father's voice responded on the other end of the line. "Where've you been?" Dean asked. Sam came to stand close beside Dean, straining to hear their father. Dean angled the phone out slightly so Sam could hear more easily. The two of them hadn't been this close to each other since last night's kiss. Dean pushed the thought out of his head and focused on his father's words.

"I was interviewing a witness. I was attacked -"

"By what? Are you alright?" Dean asked quickly.

"I'm getting there," John said. "Vengeful spirit. Possessed the woman I was interviewing and made her attack me. I didn't realize what had happened until it was too late. I managed to drive myself to the hospital, but I'm not in a position to finish the case right now. I'll be okay, but I need you boys to come here - Saint Francis Memorial. I'll brief you on what I've got so far and then you're gonna have to take point on this one."

"Yes, sir. We'll be there soon," Dean said. He hung up the phone and turned to Sam, a glint in his eye. "Do you know how to hot-wire a car, Sammy?"

"What? No."

"Well, today you're gonna learn," Dean said. "Come on." Sam followed Dean out of their room, through the parking and a few blocks away to an industrial area with a number of parked cars lining one side of the street. Dean stopped at a tan Plymouth Caravelle. "This one."

"Not exactly your style," Sam said.

"Exactly. It's unassuming, just another ugly little sedan. Plus," Dean added with a smirk, "The door's already unlocked." Dean glanced around, adopting a nonchalant air as he opened the door and slid in the driver's seat. Sam went around and got in on the passenger's side, watching as Dean pushed his seat back and leaned forward to remove a panel under the steering wheel. He carefully pulled a few bundles of wires forward, isolating a couple and explaining to Sam exactly what to do as he demonstrated. A moment or so later, the car shuddered to life.

"Couldn't we have taken a taxi or something?" Sam asked as Dean pulled out of the parking space and headed off down the road.

"Where's the fun in that?" Dean asked, his usual smirk turning up one corner of his lips. "Sit back and enjoy the ride, Sam," Dean told his little brother.

"Enjoy the ride to visit our dad in the hospital?" Sam asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Yeah. Gotta appreciate the simple pleasures in life. He's alive, isn't he?" Dean pointed out.

"Fair enough," Sam said with a nod. "You nervous about the case?"

"Why would I be?" Dean asked, brow furrowing slightly.

"I just mean - you've never handled one on your own before," Sam said, drumming his fingers over his knee.

"I'm not handling it on my own," Dean said, tightening his grip on the steering wheel slightly.

"I mean, you've spearheaded a couple of cases before, but Dad was always there to back you up. Now he's gonna be in a hospital bed," Sam said, picking at a loose thread in the upholstery of his seat.

"I don't need Dad. I have you," Dean said simply. Sam stopped picking at the thread and looked over at Dean. "Right? You'll back me up?" Dean asked after a moment of silence.

Sam nodded and smiled. "Yeah. 'Course I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking approximately 30 years to update. More to come.  
> ~aep


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